There Stand Empires
by Firebirdie
Summary: The fate of a nation can rest on the outcome of a single battle. In the age of Napoleon, the fate of Europe itself hangs in the balance. Amid shifting alliances and desperate times, only one thing is certain: it's going to be a long war.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** (briefer than usual because there's no way I can do these events justice in little blurbs like this. Also, I don't want to write a textbook, I want to write Hetalia fanfiction. Because who wants to _read_ a textbook? ;D)

Napoleonic Wars (1803-1815): In the aftermath of the French Revolution and Napoleon's eventual takeover, France went imperial and basically tried to conquer Europe.

War of the Third Coalition (August-December 1805): Britain, Austria, Russia, and others banded together to fight France & Co. Britain maintained control of the seas (of course), but a disastrous campaign at Ulm and defeat at Austerlitz knocked Austria and Russia out of the war.

Enjoy.

* * *

**There Stand Empires**

**Chapter One**

_There is a dream._

_A need to fight, a necessity–inexplicable but undeniable, like the bones that are mountains and the veins that are rivers and the flesh that is the land, the realm, the empire, all of it. There is no certainty, though, no conviction, not even hope. Providence cannot smile upon this war._

_What is Providence? So many faces, so many paths to Heaven, pulling and tugging in all directions. A standstill, then; immobility, and the panic of paralysis as millions of souls beg for salvation._

_There is a shield with a hundred shields on it. Breaking apart like puzzle pieces, falling, and if they could be put back together just so, they might form something else, something different . . ._

_They fall. Down and down. And splintered black and gold remain._

_It's over–so tired, with sleep beckoning . . ._

_Dreaming of paintings and a smiling face and an unkept promise._

Just let me sleep.

_There are black eagles stung by golden bees until the sky shatters and falls around them, and then there is nothing at all._

_Just a dream._

_

* * *

_

Austria disliked battles. Losing did nothing to improve his opinion of them.

His most recent engagement with France had ended in utter, painful failure: he'd been dragged away with a bullet in his leg, one arm and three ribs broken, a hundred cuts and bruises, and the insistent weariness of a defeated nation, a lethargy which made every motion a battle of its own.

Austria's glazed, half-lidded eyes focused on a point in the air a few feet from the far wall. He rested on a bed in the crowded stinking medical tent while all around his men, his people, moaned and bled and suffered in his name. Many remained on the battlefield–their transports were slow, cumbersome; all too often, wounded soldiers were left for the ravens and the bandits to take care of.

Hungary entered his line of vision, clad in her black-and-red cavalry uniform, her wavy brown hair escaping its tie to frame her face. "Welcome back," she said, smiling and kneeling next to his bed.

Austria summoned up the energy to return the smile. "Thank you. How long was I unconscious?"

"Two days. It's evening on the fourth."

"Ah . . . What news from the Emperor?"

"Which one? Yours or _his?"_

". . . I suppose either."

Hungary gave a short breathy laugh. "Well. They've set the date for our surrender treaty. Pressburg, later this month."

"What does France want?"

"Looks like he wants Veneziano."

Austria fought down an indignant protest. He was in no position to argue at the moment; and besides, there was still time. Perhaps he could negotiate his way to more favorable terms.

Hungary tugged thoughtfully on an loose curl. "Would you mind if I snuck out and strangled France?"

"Far too dangerous, Elizabeta." He knew she was joking, making light of a situation they both knew was dire, but he couldn't shake the worry that she might actually try something. And be hurt. And that . . . that would–

"Oh, all right. Listen, I know this isn't exactly the best thing to wake up to, but Gilbert arrived earlier this afternoon."

"Why would he–not with reinforcements, I assume–"

"No, just him and a horse. We decided not to let him in here until you woke up. You needed your rest, after . . ." Hungary grimaced, and whether it was at the prospect of interacting with Prussia or at the ravages of battle, Austria could not tell.

"You," he said, "are a godsend." He was gratified when her sour look lightened somewhat.

"Should I send him in and let you get this over with?"

"Please do."

Hungary rose, straightened her coat, and took a step away before hesitating. ". . . I could tell him you're still out of it," she said hopefully.

"I think he would simply barge in here anyway."

"True." Hungary exited the tent, letting in a wash of chill air.

Austria settled back against the thin pillow. He closed his eyes. What could possibly motivate Prussia–who had steadfastly avoided fighting France this time around–to visit _him?_ They had never been on particularly friendly terms, so a social call was out of the question. And so, apparently, was an offer of belated military aid . . .

The tent flap rustled and Austria's eyes snapped open again. Prussia strode in with a smirk. Hungary idled behind him, just an inch too close, an unspoken threat hovering between them. _Try anything and you'll regret it._

"Why are you here?" Austria croaked. Might as well dispense with the pleasantries; Prussia never even tried to reciprocate.

"Officially," Prussia said, "I'm checkin' up on a sort-of ally who just got decimated by a definite threat. Unofficially . . . oh, you know. Schadenfreude."

He had a remarkably annoying voice. Grating, rough, scraping at the discerning ear like sandpaper. Austria sat up with difficulty, ribs screaming; he winced as several barely-healed wounds pulled and threatened to reopen. "I am glad," he said sourly, "that _someone_ is drawing amusement from this disaster."

"You're a goddamn mess."

"How very observant of you."

"Not that I expected much, 'specially since it's _you_. But still." Prussia shook his head in insincere concern.

Austria had, over the years, become something of an expert in reading Prussia. And his words, while arrogant as always, were belied by a faint tension in his face, a growing fear. "You're worried about France, too; don't deny it."

Prussia laughed. "Nah, there's no way he can take me. You and the brat, though–"

"If you are only here to gloat, I suggest–" He stopped. He looked at Hungary. "Elizabeta," he said slowly, "where is Heinrich?"

She bowed her head. "We haven't seen him since the battle. And France hasn't said anything about capturing him."

"Has anyone _looked?"_

"Of course. We went back and looked all yesterday, when we realized he was missing. Didn't find anything before it got too dark to stay out, what with all the scavengers . . . and French . . ."

"You believe he is still out there?" Austria asked.

"Maybe. If he is, though, one of _us_ might have a better chance than . . . anyone else." Nations had a tendency to be drawn to each other–it was rare not to encounter one's counterpart in battle.

But still. The bandits, the lowlifes who preyed on the dead and the dying. The French soldiers who had broken off their pursuit of the Austrian army once they surrendered, but who would no doubt take issue with their presence should they be discovered . . . No single human had ever permanently killed a nation, but the rules of their immortality were fluid and unreliable, especially in wartime. And Austria did not want to see Hungary hurt.

"I could take another look," she was saying, and the flower in her hair caught the sunset through the tent fabric and seemed to glow, the brightest color in the dreary winter world save for her eyes' warm green. And Prussia's, of course, but they were the color of blood, and there was entirely too much of that lying around.

"Out of the question," said Austria.

"I'll be _fine,_" she insisted.

"At least take someone with you–"

"I could go," Prussia interrupted.

Austria sniffed, "I would prefer someone a bit more dependable–proper soldiers, for instance." And if he absolutely had to choose a nation to accompany his . . . maidservant, for lack of a better term, he would have preferred anyone–Poland, Russia, _anyone_–to Prussia.

Who, very pointedly, flicked a nonexistent speck of dust from his spotless blue uniform. _That_ look said _My army is the best in Europe. Don't even get me started on soldiers._ With obligatory extra profanity, of course; after all, this was Prussia_._ "So what'll you tell 'em you're looking for, then?" he scoffed. "Some random blond kid who just won't die?"

His lips thinned. But Hungary saved him the trouble of retorting, choosing to snap, "I can take care of myself, you idiot. Mr. Edelstein, I _know_ what war is like and I can handle it. I'm going. Now good _night._" She spun on her heel and left with another wash of cold air. Her shoulder bumped Prussia's arm with rather more force than could be chalked up to accident.

Prussia glanced down at Austria. "Sleep tight," he said mockingly. He stepped out after Hungary, rubbing his arm as if it had hurt. Austria felt a brief flare of satisfaction.

He lay back and let out a deep breath. _Schadenfreude_. Of all the arrogant, belligerent, unreliable warmongers to have as a neighbor . . . He was above that, though. Prussia could claim military superiority all he wished; when it came down to it, Austria would always best him in culture and–dare he say it?–guile. Not all battles had to be fought with swords and rifles . . .

. . . He knew that Hungary was a capable fighter. God knew she had fought him time and again, even when he was trying to free her from the Ottoman Empire–but that was another issue entirely. She would be fine. She could handle practically anything the world threw her way.

And yet he was still worried. She was part of his household; he should be able to protect her–only it was more than that, it was . . . personal.

_Heaven help me._

Austria slept, but his dreams were uneasy.

* * *

Cold. Hungry. Alone. The first thing he could remember, though, was a tattered banner–black on top and gold below, the fabric torn and scorched and filthy where boots had trampled it into the dirt. He recognized it without being able to name it.

All he knew was that the sun had risen and set and risen again, and now it was night once more, and he'd always been among corpses and ravens. He wandered across the battlefield and hid from the dark figures that picked through the dead and the dying, speaking in a language he didn't understand. And then he moved on, not knowing where or why, only that he must.

Hills. A plateau peppered with bodies. In the distance, lakes. More corpses. He'd taken a jacket from a man sprawled over a smashed cannon the first night, as the darkness leeched away what little heat the sun provided. There was blood on the jacket. It made his skin crawl.

He picked his way over a small rise as the last ghost of light in the west faded to a pale grey glow, and the first stars blinked coldly in the distant heavens. If he kept moving, maybe he'd find something, anything-anything but the death-filled emptiness gilded silver by frozen moonlight. He was _tired;_ he wanted to sleep, but the compulsion drove him onward . . .

Footsteps. A horse's–no, two, heavy and sharp and metallic, coming closer, closer . . .

He fled, then, fearing another encounter with the people who stole from the dead. He reached a stand of trees and crouched in the stark vegetation, breathing as quietly as possible, watching for movement. Two indistinct shapes bobbed in and out of the fog and he shivered. His breath puffed out before him in a small cloud.

". . . hell . . . following me?" A woman's voice, angry.

He understood–somehow he understood. He understood but it wasn't . . . _his_ . . .

". . . not? Better chance of . . . . two . . . right?" That was a man . . .

The conversation dropped to a dull murmur. He peered out from his dead-brush shield and watched as two shapes resolved out of the shadows and sullen fog. Two riders. The woman, on a bay horse, was not dressed as one; she wore an officer's uniform (how did he know that, _how did he know that_). The man rode a black horse. He was pale, and wore a dark coat, and had one hand on the reins and the other around the hilt of a cavalry saber.

Soldiers. He shrank back and then winced as his shifting weight snapped a twig underfoot.

". . . right to . . . –hang on, I heard something," the woman said. And the scrape of hooves against hard frozen ground drew nearer.

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure . . ." A jingle of stirrups, a crunch of boots. She'd dismounted.

He was absolutely still. He could hear her footsteps and then the man's, and every instinct screamed to run, to hide, to get _away_ from these people . . . and something held him back. He understood them. Somehow. He wanted to know why–

Instinct won. He ran.

"Hey! Kid, wait a minute, we're not going to hurt you–!" the woman called.

But he sped over the frost-crunchy earth and the dead man's jacket flapped behind him like a bird's broken wings and every breath hurt his throat as panic tightened it, and in the cold and the dark there was safety, let me sleep, _let me sleep_–

They had longer legs and they weren't hungry and weak. They overtook him within moments, and he stumbled on a loose stone and fell and rolled partway down the hill. He slid to a halt and lay crumpled face-down. His elbows and knees smarted and the heels of his hands were raw where they'd scraped the hard ground.

His pursuers' footsteps slowed some distance away. _". . . Heiliges Römisches Reich?"_ the man said.

Holy Roman Empire. It wasn't the same as the other words, it was a language that reached into him and _settled _like a warm weight, it was _right,_ he _knew_ the words–

He looked up. They were watching him, impossibly tall. He could smell iron and gunpowder and blood and . . . flowers?

_"W-wer sind Sie?"_ he quavered.

They exchanged glances. The woman said, "I'm . . . I'm Hungary . . . _Ungarn._ This is Prussia–_Königsreich Preussen._ Don't you . . . What's your name?"

"I don't–I don't have one, I don't know . . ." He stiffened as the woman squatted down beside him and held out a hand and smiled a little. It did nothing to reassure him.

"It's okay," she said gently. "Come with us. I promise, we won't hurt you. It's okay."

He hesitated, then took the hand. It was warm and strong, and she pulled him to his feet again. The top of his head barely reached her shoulder.

"You'll have to ride with Prussia," she said, leading the way back to the horses. "Csillag isn't big enough for two."

"Where are we g-going?"

"Back to camp, a few miles away," said Prussia. "Way safer than out here–you been running from the scavengers this whole time?"

"Yes . . ."

The black horse whickered as they approached; the bay pawed the ground and tossed its head. "Easy," Hungary murmured. She mounted up like an acrobat, seeming not to clamber so much as float into the saddle. Prussia rolled his eyes and hoisted the boy onto the gray, following with a great deal more clinking and wobbling. The boy hunched over, clutching the coarse mane in front of him like a lifeline.

"Sit up straight," Prussia ordered.

He nodded shakily. The ground was so far away . . .

An exasperated sigh brushed his ear; he felt a wiry arm around his midsection, holding him steady. "I'm not gonna let you fall, kid."

* * *

_"Between a battle lost and a battle won, the distance is immense and there stand empires."_

–Napoleon Bonaparte


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes:**

Ulm Campaign (September-October 1805): Austria did not have a fun time during these wars. At all.

Friedrich Wilhelm III of Prussia (r. 1797-1840): Liked snazzy uniforms and precision drills, but was hesitant to engage France during the War of the Third Coalition. His wife, Luise, was rather more enthusiastic about fighting France. We'll be seeing these two again.

Friedrich Wilhelm "The Soldier King" (r. 1713-1740): Old Fritz's father. They had a not-so-happy relationship, to put it mildly.

Google Translate = FAIL.

Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

The ride back was nearly silent, except for the pounding of the horses' hooves as they cantered through the dark. Prussia felt the kid drooping with exhaustion and tightened his grip. Last thing they needed was a broken neck.

_Who the hell are you?_ He looked like Heinrich–just younger. Closer to ten than to fourteen. Definitely a nation, though, because there was no mistaking that feeling. Like a compass needle twitching when a magnet got too close.

The kid's head lolled back–he'd fallen asleep. Prussia restrained an amused grin and poked him in the ribs; he shot upright with a strangled yelp and stared around, disoriented, until Prussia said, "Calm _down_, kid, I got you."

He sat up a little straighter–good; he'd remembered.

Prussia glanced over at Hungary, who ignored him, murmuring encouragement to her tired horse. _"Mi már majdnem otthon,"_ she said. _We're almost home._

Prussia's own horse was breathing hard; grudgingly, he reined back, slowing to a brisk trot, and Hungary followed suit. A little more jarring of a gait, but they could maintain it for much longer.

Maybe ten minutes later, they topped a rise and there was the Austrian army–what was left of it, anyway. Rows of tents in varying states of shabbiness, banners hanging limp and ragged, a few dull fires gleaming like dark red stars.

The sentry at the edge of the camp waved them onward without a word.

"Fraulein Héderváry?" a lackey in an Austrian uniform called out.

Hungary pulled up and dismounted, tossing him the reins. "We have some business with Herr Edelstein. Take care of the horses for me, will you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Prussia slid out of the saddle and cursed when his foot caught in a stirrup. Hopping around on one foot until he freed himself, he helped the boy down, and noted his unsteadiness once back on solid ground. "Can you walk?" he asked bluntly.

The kid gave a quick nod as the lackey walked the horses away. "I'm fine."

Hungary smiled at him again. "We'll get you fed and warmed up soon, okay? We just have to let a friend know you're here."

". . . friend?"

"I think you'll like him–oh, don't give me that look, Prussia, it's not like he–"

"I'm just sayin'," Prussia said, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence, "the guy's kinda hard to put up with unless you're into music and losing wars–"

"And what about you? Hmm? You claim you have the best army on the continent and yet you're too scared to fight France!"

. . . He wasn't scared. He was _sick_ of waiting, biding his time, watching the war tear at Austria and Hungary–not that he cared when he heard that France was in Vienna, that Ulm had been a disaster. Or now, seeing the familiar aloofness and hostility hollowed, drained.

He was ready to fight _now,_ dammit, and if his king couldn't understand that . . . Whatever. The queen agreed. _Go examine the situation; perhaps this is the impetus we need to convince the king_. They couldn't sit around and wait for France to make a move, especially now that Austria was–

Nothing he could do now. Not anymore.

Not _yet._

Hungary was glaring at him and the kid was looking between the two of them with wide pale eyes and somewhere, France was laughing.

Prussia sneered, "Sorry I wasn't around to save your asses the other day."

Hungary placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let's go," she said coldly. She steered him towards the medical tents. The few soldiers still awake watched them, officers and conscripts and enlisted men, all weary, all battered, all beaten.

Fucking mess.

When they reached the medical tents, went inside, found Austria again, Prussia wondered how anyone so goddamn _fragile_ had survived this long. He looked like–no, he _was_ an artist in an officer's clothes, lying there with his unbroken arm atop the thin covers, fingers dancing across the cloth, playing music only he could hear. It was his left hand. Bass clef, then. Prussia would never let on that he knew that.

Austria stopped when he noticed them, sat up a bit straighter, fixed a haughty glare on Prussia before turning his attention to the kid. He blinked, then glanced at Hungary. "This is not Heinrich . . ."

"No," Prussia broke in, "he just shrank a little in the wash."

He flinched when Hungary gave a twitch like she was going to punch him. But all she did was squeeze the kid's shoulder in reassurance and say, "He's new, we think. No names yet."

Austria nodded distantly. ". . . I see." He focused on the boy. "Well?"

"Y-you're the . . . friend?"

". . . I suppose I am. You may call me Austria, if you wish, or Herr Edelstein."

"Why do you have two names?" the kid asked, hesitant, nervous.

"I am the embodiment of the Austrian Empire, just as Elizabeta is Hungary and Gilbert is Prussia. For day-to-day affairs we use our human names; most humans are not aware of our existence, and we prefer to keep it that way." They were in a pretty secluded part of the tent and Austria's voice blended with the background sounds, making it difficult for anyone outside about ten feet to hear a word. Probably pitched it that way on purpose. Neat trick.

"So I'm a nation?"

"It would appear so." Austria had that _look,_ his eyebrows arched and one slightly above the other. It usually went along with steepled fingers, but since he only had one functional arm, he made do. It was still impressively snobby.

One of the medics brushed past them with a muttered apology, carrying fresh bandages to a man in a nearby cot who was lying in a pool of red, moaning.

The kid shifted uncomfortably. Swallowing, he asked, "Who is Heinrich?"

Austria hesitated, then shook his head. "An old acquaintance. You bear some resemblance. It is of no consequence." _Liar, liar . . ._ But Austria was adjusting his glasses, clearing his throat. "We will take care of you, boy. Elizabeta, kindly see to it that he is fed and clothed properly; Gilbert . . . make yourself useful for once."

Hungary and the kid made for the exit. Prussia hung back. He frowned at Austria. "What's up with the–"

"He needs time to adjust," he snapped. "And I told you to–"

"Since when have I listened to _you?_"

Austria took a deep breath through his nose, lips going thin. "We will discuss this later," he said tightly. "Once we have determined what, exactly, he is."

". . . I'm holdin' you to that, Roddy." Prussia had his own ideas, and if he knew Austria as well as he thought he did, which was pretty damn well, considering how long they'd been fighting each other–

"Of course. I am a man of my word."

"I know. Makes it real easy to mess with you." Prussia waved languidly and followed the others, jogging to catch up with them.

Hungary didn't spare him a glance. The boy did, though, hurrying along to keep up with the longer-legged nations. "I don't want to be a bother–"

"You're no trouble at all," Hungary said gently. "We'll figure all this out, don't worry."

". . . What is my _name?"_ he whispered to himself. He sounded miserable. His face was all tensed up and smudged, and he was cold and thin and small . . .

Prussia was no good with this kind of thing. He looked over at Hungary, who seemed equally at a loss, then shrugged and kept walking. "Hell if I know, kid. You want one?"

". . . Yes . . ."

Prussia laughed. "Yeah, 'cause _hey you_ isn't going to cut it . . . How about _West?_ Since we found you there." And if his little idea was right, it'd still be an apt description. Mostly. _Southwest_ didn't have the same ring.

The kid seemed to chew that over. Then he gave a small bob of the head. "All right."

"Okay, West."

A different lackey scurried up to them–an aide-de-camp, to someone in the Austrian top brass, probably. "Fraulein!" he wheezed, staggering to a halt and snapping off a wobbly salute. He was exhausted. Seemed like everybody here was. "Fraulein, your presence is requested to discuss the journey to Pressburg–the Emperor wishes to–"

Hungary sighed. "I'll be right with him, Christoph. Beilschmidt . . . Get him settled, will you? And don't–"

"Don't you trust me?"

"No," she said shortly. She looked at West. "If he does anything stupid, let me know, all right?"

"Y-yes . . ."

"Good." She nodded at Christoph-the-lackey and walked away.

Prussia stopped the man before he could run off. "Where's the nearest mess?"

Christoph pointed. "They aren't serving anything, though, sir–"

"I can be really persuasive," Prussia said, grinning._ "Dankeschön."_ He tugged West's sleeve to get him moving. "So. Let's get some hot food in you before you drop, and then we'll find some clothes that actually, you know, _fit._ Where'd you get that, anyway, off a dead body?"

"Y . . . yes." And he bit his lip and stared at the ground ahead, and Prussia remembered another boy who tried not to cry, even when a headless corpse flopped to the ground, even when a king took belts and boots and canes and fists and roared at him to be a soldier.

West shivered.

Prussia scuffed one boot in the dirt to kick a pebble aside. It clattered into the shadows. He exhaled slowly. "It's not like he needed it more than you. C'mon."

* * *

_"The torment of precautions often exceeds the dangers to be avoided. It is sometimes better to abandon one's self to destiny."_

–Napoleon Bonaparte


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes:** Historical people ahoy! Well, mostly. The inn is entirely fictitious. I apologize to Johann I Joseph, Charles Maurice de Talleyrand, and Napoleon Bonaparte for possibly butchering their indubitably noble characters.

. . . I went a little nuts for this chapter. And it was _fun_. Most of the pertinent info is in the actual fic, so . . . well, if you want to do the Google legwork yourself, go ahead. But above all, as always:

Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

_9 December 1805. Brünn, modern Czech Republic, near Austerlitz._

"Your Majesty, surely we can afford to be generous–"

"What? We are _victorious,_ Talleyrand. Do you expect me to allow the Austrians to dictate the terms of their own surrender?"

"Of course not, sir. I merely meant that leniency might do us more good in the long run."

"Leniency? _Mon Dieu._ That is not how one establishes supremacy in war."

". . . We aren't at war anymore, Your Majesty."

France listened to his emperor and foreign minister argue. He dropped back a pace as the three of them walked through the spiky shadow of Brünn's cathedral, and shook his head in amusement. Charles Maurice de Talleyrand was quite the weasel. Clever and manipulative and, perhaps, less loyal to Napoleon than he ought to be.

Well. _C'est la vie._ A weasel, yes, but a weasel with a taste for good wines, of which France approved wholeheartedly.

"With Austria, no. But Great Britain is irritatingly persistent, and Russia remains something of a threat," Napoleon retorted.

Ah, yes. _Angleterre._ A perpetual thorn in his side. France would bring him down soon enough, by outright battle or complete isolation. He smiled at the prospect: England, broken and alone, his for the taking–_that_ was a dream to pursue if ever there was one.

"We are not signing this treaty with Britain or Russia," Talleyrand was saying. "We are signing it with Austria!"

Napoleon shook his head, exasperated. "And emphasizing our defeat of Austria will send a very clear message to–"

France spoke up. "Monsieurs, if I might interject my, ah, professional opinion? Austria, while not the great power he once was, may still pose a threat should his allies concentrate their efforts. By which I mean Britain, Russia, and, if we are unfortunate, Prussia. Divide and conquer, _n'est-ce pas?_ It is a good strategy."

"I see," Napoleon and Talleyrand said, in unison. They glanced at each other–short, dark emperor and grey-eyed diplomat, as always at odds. It was not a friendly look.

France chuckled.

They jumped back into their argument a moment later, and France laughed harder.

* * *

_Midmorning, 10 December._

Austria caught Bavaria's eye as the German principality left the Old Town Hall. He raised an eyebrow; Bavaria shrugged. "You know what I'm going to say," he said.

Austria nodded coldly, understanding. _You would leave the Holy Roman Empire, you would leave _me,_ for France's promises. Very well._ If that was how France was going to play this, so be it.

Hungary muttered something–probably impolite–under her breath. They entered the hall through its elaborate gate, the middle carved spire crooked like the hearts of politicians, and then located France, who stood to greet them with an outstretched hand.

Austria eyed it without enthusiasm. "You do realize that my arm is broken and in a sling," he said quietly.

France retracted it. "Ah–my apologies, _Autriche,_ I forget myself." Insincere–he'd been the one to break it, metaphorically speaking.

With a sweeping gesture, France invited Austria and Hungary to the table, on which was spread a map of Europe and the Mediterranean, sheafs of paper, three glasses, and a bottle of Chardonnay. Austria kept his breathing under strict control, though his ribs pulsed dully with pain; he leaned on Hungary and took his seat, and gave her a quick smile of gratitude when she remained beside him.

Prussia and the dubiously-named _West_ were elsewhere in the town; Austria neither knew nor cared for the specifics. He did not want Prussia endangering his already precarious position, and the boy would only be a distraction.

Important, but a distraction nonetheless. West's–or, as Austria had suggested to the boy en route, _Ludwig's_ appearance, coupled with Heinrich's disappearance . . . There was no doubt in Austria's mind that they were connected. That, and the attitudes of the other German states, suggested a major shift in the organization of the Holy Roman Empire's territories, and soon–but that was a headache for the future. One which, for once, he was willing to keep to himself rather than share with France.

"I am glad to see you back on your feet, Roderich," France said smoothly.

"My thanks. To business, then?"

_"Oui."_

Their discussion would be mostly a formality; the true power lay with the diplomats, but a nation's own word carried greater weight than that of a human advisor. Their lives depended on it, after all. Diplomacy among nations was a game, a dance, giving here and taking there and hoping that the next surrender would not be the last.

So Austria listened to France's demands in silence. He did want custody of Veneziano, and the rest of the Italian territories under Austria's control. He wanted their Albanian and Dalmatian holdings, and sovereignty for the French-allied German states. And just to round it all out, one hundred million francs from Austria's government.

He listened until France wound down, at which point he leaned forward. He met France stare for stare over his glasses and said, quite simply, "Ridiculous."

Hungary jumped in then, knuckles white where she was gripping the armrests of her chair. "You're out of your mind if you think we're just going to hand over–"

"Am I?" France asked, lazily twirling a lock of hair around one finger. He lounged in the chair as if it were a throne, and they his servants. His eyes were half-lidded, mouth curved into a triumphant smile–unconcerned, secure in his victory, and utterly smug.

It set Austria's teeth on edge.

"We cannot pay such a high sum," he said carefully.

Hungary, still menacing the woodwork, muttered, "All you're doing is rubbing our noses in the fact that we lost."

"And if I am?"

"Then–you–"

"Then _you,_ my dear, can protest all you wish; it makes no difference to us. His Majesty the Emperor _will_ have his way. And weakness is not his way at all."

Austria hoped that his human counterpart's discussion was proceeding with more success. It was a faint hope, but he clung to it. It was all he could–

Hungary's hand found his, under the table, out of France's line of sight.

He clung to that, too.

_

* * *

Disgustingly early, 11 December._

Johann sank onto his bed at some ungodly hour of the night–or rather, of the morning, which made it that much worse. He buried his face in the pillow. Negotiations . . . dear God, and the _French._ Insufferable.

Give him a cavalry regiment to command, and he'd do so with flying colors. Ask him to uphold what was left of Austria's dignity to Talleyrand and Napoleon . . . He was a soldier, not a diplomat; he wondered at Emperor Franz's decision to send him. Perhaps it was his military record–perhaps Franz thought he'd be respected as a fellow soldier. Or not. After all, despite his best efforts, despite _everybody's_ best efforts, they'd lost . . .

He had, upon meeting Napoleon and realizing exactly how out of his depth he was, sent a message to Franz for assistance, which should arrive within a day or two. But until then, he was on his own–Edelstein and his small retinue worked separately, for whatever reason. Franz had been inexplicably closed-mouthed about it.

Johann moaned into the pillow and willed his mind to slow down, to relax. He'd have to talk with the French again tomorrow. Today. _Early_ today. And–

And there was someone in his room. Shuffling about near the desk, doing a very good job of being quiet save for the occasional missed step or rustle of cloth.

Johann kept his breathing steady. An assassin? But what could the French gain by his death? A spy? A thief?

There was no point in being cautious; the intruder must know he was awake. So he twisted round and sat up, glaring through the gloom–

It was a girl. A tiny blonde girl in a white nightgown with slightly ruffled trim, rummaging through his papers with a purposeful air.

"What are you doing here?" Johann demanded.

She turned, revealing a face possessed of a strange kind of gravity, with large eyes and a thoughtful look far beyond her apparent years. Six? Seven? "I got lost," she said, voice serious. "But I think I'm supposed to be here."

"Who on Earth are you?"

"I don't know yet," she said calmly. "When I find out, I'll tell you."

He stared. He rubbed his eyes. She did not disappear. "Where are your parents?"

"I don't have any. So I think I'll stay with you. What's your name?"

Either she was mad, or he was. She could be a mere hallucination brought on by exhausted mental faculties–except that Johann was not prone to fancies. Cautiously, he replied, "Feldmarschalleutnant Johann I Joseph, Prince of Liechtenstein."

The girl's eyes gleamed green. "I'll stay."

"I'm afraid you cannot; I have some very important work to do tomor–later today, and I can't have you underfoot." He bit back a yawn. "And I must sleep. Please, go home . . ."

"All right. I'll be quiet. I want to read this, anyway."

". . . Are you–"

"I will stay," she said firmly. She pulled the chair back to the desk and picked up a sheet of paper, covered in notes and directives from the recent campaign. "You should sleep now, Feldmarschalleutnant."

"Johann," he mumbled, sinking back onto the bed and covering his eyes with one hand. _"Guten nacht."_

Hopefully she _was_ just a hallucination. Because he did not want to deal with mysterious nameless children in addition to Talleyrand and Napoleon. He could only juggle so many problems at once, and he was no street performer.

Except that he was. And people were throwing things at him and jeering that they'd seen better shows from their grandmothers, and he was suddenly seated before a young man with glasses and a funny bit of hair that stuck up above the rest–_Edelstein?–_and the man was shaking his head in disappointment and somehow that was worse than the abuse of the crowds, he'd let him down, let them all down–

Something shook his shoulder. "Mr. Johann?"

"Nnngh?"

"It's time for you to wake up now."

Half-awake, off-kilter from the dispirited look of the man in his dream but still tired, he kept his eyes resolutely closed and mumbled "Too early . . ."

The shaking ceased. He heard soft footsteps. And then a threatening _slosh_–

He sat bolt upright, too late, as a torrent of frigid water engulfed him. Yelping, he cleared his eyes to glare at the girl responsible. "That was completely unnecessary!" he spluttered.

She stared back, cool and calm, and quite unrepentant. Except for a small twitch at the corner of her mouth–but that wasn't guilt, that was humor. Heaven above, she was _laughing_ at him. _Laughing._ "But this way you're definitely awake. And you can't fall back asleep, either. So you won't have bad dreams."

Johann clambered out of bed and shivered as his sodden nightshirt clung to him, leeching away the heat. "Wonderful," he muttered. Then, sighing, he said, "All right. If you would step outside for a few minutes . . . I'd best get dressed."

The girl nodded, then paused. "Mr. Johann?"

"Yes? What?"

"That word you used, before. _Liechtenstein._ Can I use it, too?"

"If you feel the need . . ."

"Then I am Liechtenstein," she said serenely, and floated out the door, carrying the bucket under one arm.

* * *

_He cannot fly. There were once great eagles and red banners, but they were not his, and he is an echo, distorted, fading._

_Remember? a childish voice says. Do you remember them?_

_Warriors. He remembers war. It tore him apart and stitched him back together, only the pieces didn't fit anymore. He knew, then. He knew and hated the knowing._

_Do you remember me?_

_Nothing but loathing there. Self-loathing. Something disgusting and wrong and vile, a sin to stain the heart and corrupt the soul, tarnishing what was innocent and bright and pure._

_Do you?_

_Yes. Yes, I do. I can't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry–_

_Remember?_

_If the older ones do it, it is because they are not him, they are not faithful, they are political–but what is his faith, what is it now that the single path has become a thousand, a web, crossroads and detours and tangling, tangling? What is he?_

_Not this. Not anymore._

_Remember._

_Remember what?_

_There is nothing to remember. He cannot fly. He never could._

_No loathing, no loss._

_Just a dream._

Then a memory.

Then nothing.

West's face was salt-sticky when he woke up. He scrubbed it clean and thanked God Prussia wasn't awake to see.

* * *

She leaned against the wall outside Mr. Johann's room, examining the whorls and knots in the wooden boards beneath her feet. She'd done a lot of reading in the past few hours. Much of it was difficult to understand, but she knew that there was a war on, and that Mr. Johann's side was in trouble.

She looked up as a door across the hall and to the left creaked open. A boy a few years older than her came into the hallway and started when he saw her. He had yellow hair and tired bloodshot blue eyes and he was frowning.

"You're like me," he said.

Liechtenstein–she savored the word, it fit her, it felt _right_–rubbed her nose. "What are you?"

"A nation."

"Oh. Is Liechtenstein a nation?"

The boy blinked. "It has a prince, so I guess . . . Maybe. You're–"

"That's me," she said. "I'm Liechtenstein." She set down the bucket and folded her arms across her chest. "Who are you, then?"

"Er–West. Only Austria says that isn't a very good name. He calls me Ludwig, but Prussia says I'm West." He _sounded_ tired, and a little sad. "They don't like each other."

"I want to meet them!"

West shushed her, shooting the door a worried glance. "You can't right now. I don't know where Austria is and Prussia's still asleep."

"Is there a France person, too?" she asked, keeping her voice low. She was proud that she knew about France.

"Y-yes," West said. There was a funny hitch to his voice, like he was afraid.

"Have you met France?"

"No."

"Can I meet France?"

"Why would you want to–"

"I want to know things," she said. Then her stomach growled.

West was still frowning at her, but he said, "I can . . . tell you what I know, I guess. And, er, I can see about food. Breakfast . . ." He pushed his hair up and out of his eyes with one hand, biting his lip. He looked funny. "Just–just follow me." He led her down the hall to a staircase and then down that to a big open area with tables and good smells.

West pointed her to a table and went up to the big-nosed man behind the bar, and within a few minutes the pair of them had steaming cups of itchy-smelling tea and warm flaky rolls to eat.

"How many nations are there?" Liechtenstein asked.

"I don't know. Many. I only know Austria, Hungary, and Prussia. But Austria talks about Russia–they fought France together–and England, only sometimes he says _Great Britain,_ and it gets confusing . . . There are more, though."

"What are they like? The ones you do know, I mean."

West hesitated. When he did say something, it sounded like the words had to get past something on their way out. "Austria . . . he likes music, Hungary told me that, but he's hurt right now so he can't play anything. He is . . . very . . . cultured." West buried his nose in his tea and mumbled something over the rim, and when Liechtenstein asked him to repeat it he said in a rush, "I think he's a little in love with Hungary."

"Oh."

He cleared his throat. "She's, er, part of his empire and does a lot of the fighting. But she's also very nice. She and Prussia found me, at Austerlitz."

"And Prussia?"

"He's insane."

". . . Huh?"

West looked embarrassed, as if he regretted saying that. He took a bite of the roll and chewed and swallowed before continuing. "Austria and Hungary are busy; they're trying to talk to F-France right now. So I've been with Prussia most of the time, and he's been teaching me how to fight. I'm not very good at it. But he says I have to be able to defend myself–"

"That's not insane," Liechtenstein said.

"–from Austria trying to teach me to dance."

"Oh. That is insane."

West cracked a tiny, tiny smile.

The girl scrunched up the last, fluffy bit of her roll and dabbed at the crumbs with the bread-ball. "Are you scared of France?"

He nodded once.

"Why?"

"I don't know," he said, smile vanishing. "I just am."

* * *

After a few minutes of relief that the girl had vanished once more, and a rather pleasant breakfast brought up to his rooms, Johann returned to his previous state of nonplussed resignation when he found her downstairs, sitting next to the boy who tagged along with Edelstein and his crew.

But it was just the two of them this morning, and the girl seemed content to badger him with her inquiries, so Johann decided to leave them to it. With a hasty greeting and even hastier farewell, he made to take his leave, only to collide with Edelstein himself in the doorway, sending both men toppling in a mess of sling, limbs, and gracelessness.

Johann extricated himself from the tangle first. "I beg your pardon!" he said hurriedly, bending to help the wounded man to his feet.

Edelstein brushed himself off calmly. "It's all right; the fault is mine. I understand you sent for aid yesterday?"

"Yes . . ."

"I have received word that Count Gyulai should arrive by tomorrow. I just spoke with the French; they have agreed to wait until then. You needn't worry for today."

"Ah–thank you, Herr Edelstein," Johann said with a slight bow.

"You are wel . . . come . . ." Edelstein trailed off, focusing on something within the inn, face tightening in–consternation? Confusion? Then the expression vanished, replaced by his usual equanimity; Edelstein nodded and let Johann pass before entering the inn himself.

Johann decided to take a brisk walk through the wintry town. Perhaps it would clear his head.

* * *

_"If they want peace, nations should avoid the pin-pricks that precede cannon shots."_

–Napoleon Bonaparte


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** I am really, really sorry about the long wait for this. I have two reasons: Real Life (TM) being crazy, and the fact that I am an obsessive research monkey: the more I learn about a topic, the more I realize I don't know, which means the more I have to read to make up for that, and it just kind of . . . snowballed . . . and . . . yeah. But I'm good now!

(Only in Hetalia does writing an English fanfic involve perusing tourism websites for towns in the Czech Republic. I am SO going to Brno/Brünn if/when I get the chance.)

Funny thing I learned: the honest-to-god abbreviation for _Feldmarschalleutnant_, Johann's rank, is FML. I found this humorous. I'm so mature, really. :D

Last thing: Characters are going to bash historical figures. Characters aren't exactly objective observers. So don't trust 'em. ;)

Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Austria had reached the end of his tolerance for unwanted surprises. He inhaled through his nose, lips tight and grim, and strode into the dining area with careful steps, refusing to allow his injuries to slow him. "Ludwig?"

The boy looked up from his breakfast, stiffened, and paled. The girl sitting across from him twisted around and gave a little wave, which Ludwig eyed with visible trepidation. "Good morning, Mr. Austria," he said faintly.

"Good morning. Who is your companion, and where is Prussia?" Austria asked.

"Er–"

"Someone say my name?"

"I'm Liechtenstein," the girl announced as a viciously bright-eyed Prussia clomped down the stairs, peering around with devilish interest.

Austria felt a sudden urge to let Hungary try her hand at doing something painful and debilitating to France. "Ah," he said, pointedly ignoring Prussia. "I see." What was next–a Württemberg, a Hanover, a _Pomerania_ in addition to Saxony and Bavaria and whatever the devil Ludwig represented? The Empire was breaking up. It had been crumbling for a long time, and would eventually dissolve–if not by this treaty, then by the next, and then–

"Wait wait _wait_–"

"You heard her," Austria snapped, at which point Hungary stepped over the threshold, halting two steps in. She raised a hand to her mouth and made an odd noise somewhere between a squeak and a giggle. Austria, unamused and in pain, could not understand it.

"So who's this?" Hungary asked nonchalantly, joining their little group around the table.

"Are you Austria?" the girl said, peering up at him.

"She says she's Liechtenstein," Prussia supplied.

"Yes, I am," said Austria.

Hungary didn't spare Prussia a glance. She curtseyed, sweeping her green skirts out to either side. "Pleasure to meet you," she said. "I'm Hungary. Welcome to the world. It's a little crazy sometimes, but you'll get used to it."

". . . It's nice to meet you, too," Liechtenstein said. She stood and gave a wobbling imitation curtsey, and Hungary nodded in approval.

Austria rubbed his eyes behind his spectacles with his left hand. Why. That was all he wanted to know. _Why._ It was not a particularly difficult question, and yet God had never answered since he first posed it centuries ago. Perhaps He had a twisted sense of humor. It would not surprise Austria.

Ludwig had been glancing between all players in the conversation in quick succession, an unnerving habit that put Austria in mind of a trapped animal. He cleared his throat. "M-may I show her the cathedral? Please?"

"Yes," Austria said curtly. "Please stay together and keep out of trouble. By which I mean _away from the French delegation._ Do you understand? Ludwig?"

The boy stuttered his assent and tugged Liechtenstein away. "Have fun," Hungary called after them.

On her way out, Liechtenstein turned back and faced Prussia. "I think you're insane," she said cheerfully. "Dancing is fun!"

And she waltzed out.

Austria watched them leave, shaking his head. Too much, too many developments, too many complications in too short a period of time . . . He needed time. Breathing space, enough to think.

"Did she just–"

"Shut up," Hungary said. She put a hand on Austria's left shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Not really, no." Time. One day until Gyulai arrived from Vienna, until things began in earnest, until–

"We can get out of this, Roderich. We'll be okay."

"How do you propose to accomplish that?" he sighed.

"Yes, Liz, _do_ tell," Prussia chirped, perching on the table with one leg drawn up to his chest, head cocked to one side like a ridiculous bird. "I'd _love_ to hear your amazing escape plan."

"Let me think," she said coldly. She folded her arms and scowled at Prussia in utter disgust. "Well, let's see–oh, I know. Archduke Charles. He's got an army sitting on my lands just _waiting_ for a decent opportunity to do more than poke at supply lines. France is tired. He might not admit it and he might not act like it, but he is. He can't keep fighting like this."

"And neither can we," Austria said before Prussia could get a word in edgewise, which would not be a good idea because he could see where this was going and the last thing they needed was–

"Not alone, no," Hungary said grimly. Her tone dropped and shifted, and her expression went, if anything, even colder. "But guess whose army is close enough to make trouble for France if we do decide to go for it?"

For a fraction of a second, Prussia's ubiquitous crooked smirk lost its bite, and something distant and hollow flickered in its place. Then it snapped back. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm kind of sitting this one out. I don't feel like risking my neck for–"

"You know what needs to be done and you just won't do it," Hungary snarled. She took a step forward, and Prussia stood up again, attempting to make use of the difference in their heights in the ensuing glaring contest. It was not a significant difference anyway, and had rather less effect than he'd apparently hoped, because Hungary jabbed a finger at his chest and demanded, "So why do you keep avoiding the issue? What is it–are you _afraid,_ Gilbert?"

He laughed, loudly. "Heh–you are never gonna let me live down that one time with the Cumans, are you?"

"Don't even try it."

"Try what?"

"Changing the subject!"

"Who the fuck cares?" Prussia sidled away and stalked out of the inn, calling over his shoulder, "I'm a goddamn neutral power this time around, got it? So have fun knuckling under to France! The only thing you can do is stall for time, you pathetic . . ."

Whatever else Prussia said was lost as the door slammed shut behind him. Austria sat down in the chair recently vacated by Liechtenstein, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, "Why."

Hungary remained standing, gazing at–no, through the door with a frown. "Time . . ."

"Hmm?"

". . . Nothing. He just . . . never mind." But Hungary remained distracted and distant as Austria prodded their conversation to lighter topics. A breath before the exertions of tomorrow–Gyulai and Liechtenstein, Talleyrand and Napoleon, the beginning of what Austria fervently hoped was not the end.

* * *

France had seen many battles, and many aftermaths to battles, and they never became any cleaner or nicer as weapons and tactics improved. The corpses and cripples only multiplied. This was no different. Brünn was a town now intimately acquainted with death–the wounded lay everywhere, in the houses, in the churches, everywhere–and on the fields outside Austerlitz, the dead–Austrian, French, Russian–rotted.

It was still pleasant to walk through the town. He had seen the Austrian diplomat earlier, looking a bit more uncomfortable than usual as he crossed the Lower Market Square; France greeted him politely and continued on his less-than-merry way.

The Cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul loomed over him in silent splendor, the intricate stonework climbing the walls instead of ivy. The twin spires soared to the heavens like upraised arms, the defining points of the skyline.

France's greatest cathedral had undergone something of a crisis of faith. And a year ago, it had hosted the coronation of an emperor who took the crown from the hands of the Pope himself and placed it on his own head . . .

France entered the cathedral on a whim. He had nowhere else to be–he might as well enjoy the sights of the town, _non?_ He had already made the acquaintance of several local women and serving girls bustling about his accommodations; one, a petite slip of a thing, had blushed and nearly tripped on the hem of her skirt, while the other, robust and ruddy-faced, had winked back.

He scanned the almost deserted cathedral, eyes settling on the other occupants. Two golden-haired children, a boy and a girl, sitting in the pews, leaning against each other and gazing around in naked wonder.

France blinked.

Nations.

_Qu'est-ce que vous cachez, Autriche?_

France was behind them; he approached with care.

". . . like this place. It's pretty," the girl was saying in their universal patois, her head on the boy's shoulder. He seemed on-edge, a bit uneasy with the close contact.

"Yes, but . . . I know what it's for, what it's about. I just . . . I don't think I quite belong in here."

"Why not? Are you a Protestant nation or something?"

The boy shrugged, half-dislodging her. "Maybe."

She straightened up. "Huh. Well, _I_ still think this is very pretty, and I think you shouldn't be uncomfortable or anything because–oh, hello!" She'd noticed France as she gestured around the cathedral, and now she beamed at him. "Who are you?" she asked.

_"Bon jour,"_ he said, giving an other sweeping bow. As he rose, his breath caught.

The Holy Roman Empire stared back at him, white-faced, mouth open in shock or fear. _I killed you,_ France thought wildly. _I killed you over a week ago, at Austerlitz, I watched you die, I watched you _disappear_–_

"Ah," he said with about as much articulacy as he could summon up under the circumstances. "Er . . ."

The girl was shorter, calmer, and altogether much more agreeable, though her innocent expression had a definite coolness around the emerald eyes. "You're France," she said.

He recovered, taking her hand and kissing it gently. "I am," he replied. "To whom do I have the honor of speaking?" He didn't look at the boy.

The girl pulled her hand away, still as unruffled as a clear summer sky. "Liechtenstein."

_"Enchanté, mademoiselle."_ He glanced at the boy. _". . . Henrique?"_

"Wes–Ludwig," he babbled. "M-my name is Ludwig . . ."

France scrutinized him. His eyes were wrong. Lighter, flatter, colder blue. France would have been relieved had he seriously entertained the notion that the boy he killed had come back from the dead to haunt him. "Have you any idea which lands you represent?"

_"N-nein,"_ the boy squeaked. German. Interesting. And he slipped out of the nations' speech when nervous. Likewise interesting.

Liechtenstein curled her slender fingers around Ludwig's wrist and tugged, standing up, keeping herself between him and France. She smiled at him. "You should look at the gardens outside, Mr. France; they're lovely."

It was the dead of winter. All the gardens were scrubby and frosted-over and there appeared to be snow flurries beyond the tall windows, but France recognized an attempted escape when he saw one. He let it go. "I'll make a point of enjoying them," he said. He stepped to the side, trying to let the child-nations out of their row of the pew into the aisle where he stood, but Liechtenstein pulled Ludwig the other way, to the outer aisle rather than the center. He followed her, stumbling over his own shoes and the hem of her–well, it appeared to be a nightgown coupled with a boy's coat. Probably Ludwig's, in fact, since he seemed to be missing his.

France examined the paintings and statuary in the resultant silence, not really seeing any of it.

* * *

Prussia was fuming. Politics and stupidity and–and _politics!_

He, Gilbert Beilschmidt, wanted to take out his frustrations on France's smug little Emperor and his much-vaunted _Grande Armée_. He wanted to, and he couldn't. Because Gilbert Beilschmidt was Prussia, and Prussia was smack in the middle of this convoluted mess–okay, so maybe not in the _geographic_ middle, but close enough. Close enough to make an alliance with the coalition powers risky at best, and an alliance with France equally dangerous. Close enough to render this _neutrality_ shit pretty much useless.

France and Napoleon sent their troops tramping through Prussia's territories–sent them to snatch British diplomats from Hamburg, to saunter all over his lands en route to Austerlitz–and the king just _sat there_ and _did nothing._

He kept his advisors and ministers at odds, jockeying for his favor, because he was afraid to _make the wrong decision._

Haugwitz wanted to cozy up to France. Hardenberg wanted to cozy up to Russia. He had no buffer between himself and Russia (no, he was _not_ going to apologize to Poland), and France didn't care about buffers at all.

Prussia did nothing. He could do nothing.

_Damned if you do, damned if you don't._

He breathed out fog in the frigid morning air, kicked at pebbles in the road as he circled the inn–not that he was avoiding it, or the people inside it, he just didn't feel like lurking in the stuffy interior–and wondered what was happening in Vienna. The king had sent Haugwitz there with an ultimatum for Napoleon. _Quit fucking with us or we'll unleash holy hell,_ something like that.

But then . . . coalitions and alliances never lasted. Ever. He'd broken too many himself to still believe that a handshake and a few signatures meant much in wartime. They crumbled, toppled, fell apart.

Russia was out. Austria, too. England would keep fighting, of course–he always did, when it was France. Those two seemed to indulge in war the way normal people indulged in chocolates or sex.

Still. There goes the mighty _coalition_.

There goes the war.

It was a mess.

Prussia nearly ran into Liechtenstein and West as the pair of them speed-walked around a corner. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, not in a mood to be polite.

"Sorry," Liechtenstein said hurriedly. "The cathedral was . . . interesting. But we kind of . . ." She finished at a low indistinct mumble he'd come to expect from West when he was trying to be evasive, and the only word Prussia caught was France.

His gaze snapped over to West. "What. _Happened_," he growled.

West had that wild-eyed panicky look from the night they found him, and not because of Prussia; there was a different panicky look for that. "He came up to us in the cathedral, we were just sitting there and, and he introduced himself and . . ."

_"And?"_

"And that was it," Liechtenstein finished.

Prussia scowled at her. "I'm not usually one to agree with Austria on anything, but in this case, we're _trying_ to keep you two from landing yourselves in–"

"We're fine," Liechtenstein said with a bright smile. "He just said hello. Don't worry so much."

"If France knows about you," Prussia exploded, "if he knows that you're new nations or whatever, he'll snap you up–"

"Our nations," Liechtenstein said, "technically don't exist yet. I mean, mine doesn't. I don't know about West's."

"Nobody knows what West even _is,_" Prussia muttered.

West tensed up even further. He was going to snap one of these days, he was wound so tightly. Liechtenstein squeezed his hand. Then she raised an eyebrow at Prussia. "We _will_ be sovereign nations. And you don't want that, do you? It'll weaken your position. Austria's, and yours."

"This has _nothing_ to do with me–"

"Then why do you care so much?" She was–this was ridiculous, he was arguing with a _kid_, and he couldn't tell if she was just being annoyingly perceptive or actually trying to argue him into a corner–

"It's too late," Liechtenstein was saying. "France already knows, so there's no point getting mad at us, all right? You were worried that his seeing us would . . . make him try to split up the old territories?" She rubbed her nose with her free hand. "We're already here. It was–it _is_ going to happen anyway."

". . . What are you, a Calvinist?"

"I don't know what that means," she said. There was an unspoken _I don't think it matters very much_ in the pause after her statement. "Can we go see the town now? West, do you want to see the town?"

West nodded without looking at either of them.

"Then we should see it," Liechtenstein concluded, brooking no argument.

Prussia gave up. "Fine, whatever," he grunted.

"Thanks."

He let them go, defeated. He raked a hand through his hair and hissed out another breath between his teeth. Girls. Nations. Hungary, Liechtenstein–he'd never understand them. Never.

_That's just an excuse for getting chewed out twice in one morning._

_Shut up._

* * *

_"We must laugh at man to avoid crying for him."_

–Napoleon Bonaparte


End file.
